Journalism and Titanium
by I Write Tragedies Not Sins
Summary: A cynical reporter with a 'puerile' past. A hot headed titanium wielder who is charged to watch said cynical reporter for hints of treason. A metal can following them around. Reoccurring nightmares. Oh HELL.
1. Preface

_**Central City in Chaos—Cross dressing?**_

_Written by Isabella Hopkins_

_Have you ever seen an androgynous cross dressing palm tree? Colonel Mustang has, and he'd either fallen for the gay charm, or suffered a severe lack of usefulness due to the invisible rain. In other words: be on the look out for a gay, shape-shifting, palm tree. He is extremely dangerous, and diverts with curiosity of which gender he really is. _

_Cross dressing is a potentially dangerous fetish when conceived in the minds of the higher ups. For instance, Mustang's cross dressing fetish caused him to have a nosebleed as Envy, the gay palm tree, rampaged around in nothing but a revealing skort. As a result, the city is in ruins. Acrid smoke is stinging your reporter's face as she walks around the rubble right now. _

_The lesson of the day? F.E.A.R. In other words: Fuck Everything And Run. Keep this in mind if you see Envy. _

I looked at the newspaper with satisfaction. Cynical, potentially hazardous to people as laughing gas, and probably illegal. Under the transcript was a large picture of Envy taken by the brave photographer, Malcom Litzler. Smirking, I crumpled the page and tossed it in the trash.

Taking a quick scan of the café, I found that most of the visitors were either staring in awe at the front page, laughing, or snorting up their coffee. Of course, this result was expected. However, a humble reporter can be allowed her fair share of pride at her newest masterpiece.

I'm afraid I'm somewhat of a legend to those involved with news. At seventeen, I write directly for the Comedy Central. No editing, no proof reading, no crossing out sentences. What I write goes into the paper, no questions. And it seemed whatever I wrote had the people wondering if the world was really as sane as it seemed to be. Not that was particularly sane.

"Um, Miss. Hopkins? Are you really Miss. Hopkins?" a waiter asked. I blinked lazily before leaning forwards and propping my face up with my hands.

"Yes? Is that hard to believe?" I said mockingly. The poor boy looked taken back.

"Actually, yes," he admitted, "you look really young."

Well what'dya know; there's some that actually admit it. Deciding to like him, I reclined once again, my legs crossed.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Flustered, the boy almost dropped my caramel latte.

"Careful there," I cooed as I stirred my drink. Caramel was my favorite flavor. Not chocolate as most people believed—caramel. Though if you do get me chocolates, buy either ones with caramel, strawberry truffles, or dark chocolate. Nothing better than dark chocolate with caramel filling. Oh wait, the boy was still looking at me.

"Yes?" I asked politely when he didn't respond.

"C-could I sit down?"

Blink.

"Help your self," I said bemusedly. His ears burned scarlet. Was I really that intimidating? Oops. Okay, stop glaring now, Izzy. You can do it, you psycho bitch. Yawning, I stirred some more. Stirring was now my distraction from the stare of the boy who thought I was scary. Me, scary? Pft.

"M-Miss. Hopkins?" This time, I almost snarled. Maybe I was scary. Don't blame me—I _hated_ formalities. And Miss. Hopkins sounded so stiff…it was a wonder if I didn't age ten years. Immediately, the boy cowered. He's not very good company, is he? Nope; he's a bit too timorous for my taste. If I had a taste to begin with. A twinge of guilt shot through me at lightening speed. I tried to lessen the force behind my glare.

"Please, don't call me Miss. Hopkins. It sounds so stiff," I complained. This time, it was the boy who blinked.

"Um, okay…Miss. Isabella?" he phrased the last of the sentence as a question. My head drooped to the table. The boy was hopeless. I might as well let him do whatever he pleased. Come on—you're faced with a mouse of a boy; you are a sarcastic pessimist with boar like mother instincts. What do you do? Do you:

A. Urge your Napoleon complex into motion

B. Glare at him and hope he realized it's affectionate

C. Begin a rant about why you abhor being called Miss. Hopkins

D. Use a sting of long adjectives that he has no chance at all of knowing

Or E. Let him do what he wishes so he will provide dull entertainment.

Besides, I don't know his name.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"B-Benjamin Doyle," he said. Unlike him (and here I scoffed distastefully in my mindscape), I came up with a nickname at once. Just something to make him squirm and take away some awkwardness.

"So Benji, working here fun?" Right on cue, the café owner bounded out in all his flabby glory.

"BENJAMIN DOYLE GET YOUR A-"

"Woah, hold it there, Fatty," slipped out of my mouth before I could think. Fatty the café shop owner glared daggers at me which made me think: I'm glad looks can't kill. Well, at least I stopped him from cursing in front of the whole shop.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?"

"I called you Fatty, but that's not the point. (I flashed my card here). I'm Isabella Hopkins, and I do not appreciate you butting in on my conversation." About half the café fell right out of their chairs. The other half gaped, open mouthed. Choking in disbelief, Fatty stared alternatively at my card, then at my face.

"I-I," he stammered.

"Benji, let's go find you a better job," I said, hauling the stunned Benjamin Doyle out of his seat with strength that appeared to stun him.

Thirty minutes later, no such luck.

"Okay, you enjoy the piano…um…hey look, a spot in the touring orchestra is open!"

Benji shook his head. No? I guess he's too shy to perform.

"Um, you did say you liked little kids…"

A sheepish shrug this time. That's a no then…

"JACKPOT! You said you liked reading so maybe I can get you a job at the library!"

An eager nod. Then he ducked behind me to hide from the stares of the population that had heard my shout. Instantaneously, I sprinted at top speed towards the marble building.

"MISS. ISABELLA! WAIT!"

"Hello, I'm Isabella Hopkins, looking for a job for my friend here. You have a spot right? Good. He's efficient, extremely sharp, and loves to read. You think you can worm him in?" The head librarian nodded. Huffing, Benji skidded to a stop.

"What's the pay?"

"1000 sens per month. He can get his schedule tomorrow at 12:00 here. The job starts next week."

"T-thanks sir!" Benji nearly sang.

"Thanks, Miss. Isabella," Benji said quietly as we munched our way through a week's worth of sandwiches.

Frowning, I threw a pickle out to the geese of Central Park. They fell upon it at once, pushing and shoving each other out of the way in hopes of getting the revolting green slime.

"It's the least I can do right?" I said through my sandwich. Benji looked surprised. Maybe he's expected I was a heartless bitch. Poor kid—he'd had to put up with my mood swings for almost twelve hours now. The sun shivered above the lake, dropping tantalizingly close to the water but not quite submerged.

Huh? When'd I get poetic?

A smile broke across Benji's face and for a moment, he looked just as radiant as the half inundated sun.

It was then I awoke to the bleak reality, where Benji was dead, and I was crying into my pillow.


	2. Chapter One

_What's your name?_

_Benjamin Doyle_

The same name that's on the front page of Daily Central. Not Comedy Central. No; the Comedy Central star has long stopped posting tidbits about her personal life in her beloved newspaper. Instead, she writes increasingly sarcastic columns and has even taken to naming hurricanes after politicians. They're to blame. Not her.

_**Not her.**_

Her columns still received laughs and applause. The sarcasm is carefully hidden behind falsely cheery words she doesn't feel. Isabella writes well enough for at least that. The Isabella Hopkins whose marvelous words killed her Benji.

_I didn't kill him_.

Giving the paint on her nails a particularly nasty chip, she snorts. Benji would have told her to get a hold of herself. She would have asked him how. And then he would rub her shoulders in a calming way. Just as he would tell her to stop living in the past. But she doesn't want to stop living in the past. The future's dead.

_Which means I'm dead too._

"Miss. Hopkins?"

She snarls. The man smirks at her. He's undeserving of my attention, she thinks. So she turns back to the tomb.

"Miss. Hopkins, you are under arrest for making a scandal out of the military."

"Where'd freedom of speech go?"

"We don't need discouraging comments in Comedy Central, even if no one believes it."

Snort. Right. Then what was the boy behind him reading anyways? She's not far enough gone yet to not be able to recognize her ads. The boy chortled.

"Quiet, Fullmetal. Do you wish to be reminded of the 'Shortmetal Shrimpis; Shrimpier than the People' incident?"

How flattering. She had indeed written that article.

"Shut up Colonel Bastard Useless When It Rains!" Edward Elric shouts. Blink. That was a new one. Muttering to herself, she sits down on the soft grass. Roy Mustang's ears perk up. She can see the title: 'Roy Mustang: A Vampire Bat Hybrid or An All Knowing Colonel?

"What did you say?" he demands. She mutters some more to herself.

"I _said_ that freedom of speech probably died meeting your face."

There's silence.

"Fullmetal, you're charged to watch her for signs of treason. We can't have negativity about the military in our country's critical condition."

"WHAT?"

_I DIDN'T KILL HIM!_


	3. Chapter Two

Still following. Still following. She glares at the concrete, speeding up in hopes of losing the (dare she say it?) short alchemist. No such luck; the shrimp is accustomed to navigating through the throngs of people taller than him. She mumbles darkly to herself as she breaks out in a sprint.

And then she quickly runs out of breath, a result of her nonexistent stamina and high heels. She's surprised she hasn't broken the thin heels yet, she thinks as she bends down to examine the shoes.

_Shit he's catching up the damned hobbit!_

"Did you say something?" Edward asks in his annoying 'I-Know-Better-Than-You-Do' voice. She keeps silent, because she knows she'll be committing a capitol offence if she lets her control loosen for one second.

_One tree, two trees, three trees, four…Benji…_

"Thought so," Edward says.

"Maybe you're too short to catch my words," Isabella says quietly.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT THAT HE'D BETTER STAY FAR AWAY WHEN PEOPLE TALK BECAUSE HE'S SO SMALL THAT THE SINGLE PROTON THAT HE IS COMPRISED OF WILL GO OUT OF WACK BY THE SOUND VIBRATIONS OF YOUR VOICE?"

Blink.

"You," Isabella says mockingly. Immediately, Edward transmutes his arm into a sharp knife. With a start, she realizes he has a metal arm. It's only when he runs after her that she continues walking. He won't do anything, she tells herself. Right on cue, the blade whistles by her right ear.

"I shiver in fear, oh mighty gnat," Isabella growls as she dodges or runs over pedestrians at random. Behind her, she hears the clacking of Edward's leather boots. Stirring up the amoeba is surprisingly fun. If she's stuck with a dog of the military, might as well teach him tricks. Or so she tells herself. A flash of pink catches her eyes, and she thinks about a cliché plan.

_I either really hope he's dumb enough to fall for it, or really hope I'm not being tailed by someone that stupid._

Then she decides it can't be all bad to try so she walks towards the sign.

"Hey wait up you hag!" Edward yells.

"So you can watch me pee? Hell no…even though I'm sure you want to," Isabella retorts, barely suppressing her smirk. Edward's forced to stare blankly as she waltzes in high spirits into the brick building, not knowing (hopefully) that she's escaping through the back exit. Grey eyes scan the area. No microscopic red shrimp. Isabella takes a deep breath and runs in the direction of her house.

_One step, two…_

It takes her 2013 steps to get to her destination. By then, she's panting heavily.

"Mom, I'm home!" she says as she throws her stilettos at the shoe rack. Depleted, she plops down on the couch and curls up in a ball, completely disregarding the wrinkles she is giving her dress.

"Izzy, did you throw your shoes at the wall again? I told you not to do that, it leaves a—"

"Nasty mark, yes I know," Isabella cuts in. "And I'm sure that's a real tragedy. Can we have clam chowder?"

A sigh's heard from the kitchen.

"So you can burn it again? Not a chance. We're having Xingese."

"There's clam chowder in Xing."

A read head streaked with grey pops out from the kitchen, a wooden spoon in her hand.

"Fine."

Isabella frowns. She's never told her mother about the Incident, but she's pretty sure she knows something's off. Ever since the library burned down a week ago, Isabella's been subjected to extreme questioning at random intervals. Benji would tell her to just enjoy the food.

"_Where's that boy you've been dating?"_

"_He moved…"_

A knock abruptly shoves her out of her daydreams. She leaps to her feet and thuds down to the door. At first, she doesn't see anyone. Then she looks down, and there's Edward, six inches below her line of sight (though that could be because her house is raised).

"What do you want?" Isabella snaps. Edward crosses his arms.

"Well, other than an explanation for why you left me staring at the women's bathroom like a pervert, nothing." Huh. The shrimp's trying to be sarcastic.

"I left you standing there like a pervert? Isn't it your choice to stay?"

"Izzy what's going—" Isabella's mom stops when she sees Edward. There's a long silence as her gaze switches back and force between Edward and her. Tensing, Isabella prays to herself.

_Please don't let her say it, please don't let her say it—_

"Izzy, I thought you told me he moved!"

_I meant he moved to Heaven, Mom. People can't come back from the dead—_

"What's going on here?" Of all times for her overprotective dad to arrive—

"Oh Vic! Our little Izzy's boyfriend's here!" It's amazing how fast her dad's expression changed. Edward tries to cower behind her back as she tries to stutter out he isn't her boyfriend. _Her boyfriend's dead._

"Young man, you have five seconds to prepare for torture…I mean interrogation," Isabella's usually kind dad says with an evil glint in his eyes. So Isabella thinks to herself—why not? It'd be fun to see the shrimp squirm.


End file.
